


That Certain Night

by Elri



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn, Idiots in Love, M/M, Post-Canon, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 01:37:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19074847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elri/pseuds/Elri
Summary: Some things are ineffable, some things are inevitable, and somethings just need the right push





	That Certain Night

**Author's Note:**

> I binged the series and couldn't get this idea out of my head so here it is

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

It had been a few decades since Aziraphale had said that to him, but that didn’t mean much in the grand scope of how long they’d known each other. Sometimes Crowley felt like it had been just yesterday. Meanwhile, yesterday felt like a lifetime ago. Then again, it was the dawn of a brand-new world, maybe it had been a lifetime ago. They tricked the home offices, grabbed lunch at the Ritz, and each went home. Crowley stayed up late, trying to figure out what they were supposed to do now. He supposed they could go back to the way things were, with the Agreement and whatnot, but what was the point of having a second chance at everything if you did it all the same?

“Too fast, eh?” He muttered, “Well, we’ve got all the time in the world now, I guess I can try slowing it down.”

The next day he dropped by the bookstore to give Aziraphale a first edition of Oscar Wilde he’d “stumbled across” and “thought Aziraphale might know something about” since he was into “books and that sort of thing,” absolutely, totally unaware of Aziraphale’s particular fondness for that particular author. And if, while he was there, he happened to inquire if Aziraphale might be free next week to grab lunch together well, that was just coincidence.

Crowley pulled up in front of the bookshop precisely on time to pick Aziraphale up, unsurprised to find that the angel was late; he had a tendency to get preoccupied, especially when reading a particularly interesting book. Normally, Crowley would honk the horn until he got Aziraphale’s attention but today he decided to get out, go to the door, and enter the shop to see if he couldn’t find out what had stolen his angel’s attention. It didn’t take long for him to spot Aziraphale sitting at his desk, completely engrossed in his book.

“Hello, angel.”

“Oh, Crowley! Is it time already? I’m terribly sorry, I completely lost track of time.”

“Eh don’t worry about it. You ready to go?”

“Let me just close up the shop.”

Crowley waited at the curb as Aziraphale put up the closed sign and shut the door, quietly locking it when the angel turned around. No sense risking some hooligan or vandal getting in and mucking the place up when they’d just gotten it back. He opened the door for Aziraphale, trying to act casual when he got a confused but appreciative look.

“So,” Aziraphale said when Crowley got in, “Where to? The Ritz? The diner?”

“Thought we’d try something new today, mix it up a little.”

It wasn’t far to the park, they probably could’ve walked like usual, but if Crowley was being honest (and he rarely tried to be) he hadn’t wanted to spoil the surprise and miss the delighted look on Aziraphale’s face when he pulled the picnic basket out of the boot.

“How charming! And such delightful weather for it too.”

 _Fancy that_ , Crowley thought, not daring to say it out loud lest Aziraphale get suspicious. They managed to find a partially secluded spot with a good view of the water. Aziraphale helped Crowley lay the blanket out, finding a few stones to pile on the corners in case the wind picked up. As Crowley started pulling food out of the basket, Aziraphale’s face lit up with delight and confusion.

“Pears?”

“I would’ve brought apples but that seemed a bit much.”

“Are those oysters? How did you manage to keep them fresh?”

“Just luck I guess. Here,” Crowley pulled out a familiar plaid thermos, “thought you might want that back.”

“Is it…?”

“Empty, used it to buy some time when Hastur and Ligur came after me.”

“I guess you were right about needing it, then.” Aziraphale, looked down at the thermos, turning it around in his hands, “Crowley I…I owe you an apology.”

“What? For the holy water? It’s alright, I understand why you didn’t want to do it, probably didn’t look good from your end.”

“Not that, though I’m sorry for that as well. I want to apologize for the way I acted before the apocalypse. I should've told you sooner about the antichrist it's just..."

“You don’t trust me.”

"No! I mean, yes I trust you, in a strange way, you just seemed so set on getting rid of the boy and I couldn't bring myself to let that happen. I’d hoped that by telling the upstairs what I knew that it could all be resolved without conflict only..."

"Didn't work out?"

"They're so damned set on doing what they're told, I don't think they know how to consider anything else. In any case, I am sorry, Crowley, you're my friend, and I should have treated you as such."

 _6000 years and he finally calls me a friend, 'spose that counts for progress; and did he curse? My these_ are _strange times._ “I forgive you, Aziraphale.” The words felt strange in his mouth, like they were never supposed to be there. That didn’t matter, though, when Aziraphale’s furrowed, frowny face relaxed into relief and happiness.

“Thank you, Crowley. Now, let’s eat before our luck runs out on the freshness of those oysters.”

The two sat and made small talk while they ate, occasionally throwing some morsels to the ducks and fish. When Crowley pulled out the crepes for dessert, he tried not to stare at the look on Aziraphale’s face, and made up some story about a Parisian bakery he’d stumbled across. He absolutely, definitely didn’t spend the last week in Paris learning how to make them himself by hand. Even if he had, the pistachio filling had definitely not been his own idea and the pleasantly surprised noise that Aziraphale made certainly didn’t make Crowley’s brain go a little fuzzy.

“That was very nice, we should do it again sometime, and I’ll bring the food.”

“Yeah, definitely.” Crowley dropped Aziraphale off at the bookshop, walking him to the door and giving him the container with the extra crepes. He sped around London for a bit before going home, needing to let out some of the residual jitters.

Aziraphale stopped by Crowley’s place a few days later with a bottle of rum. “A little gift to say thank you for the picnic. Also I realized I’d never actually been here before and thought that quite rude, so please consider it also a very belated housewarming gift.”

“Thank you, angel, you shouldn’t have. Come in, share a glass with me.” Crowley stepped aside to let Aziraphale in, willing a couch into the office so there would be seating besides the desk and the chair. Not that he would mind trying to share the chair, Crowley mused, but then again that wasn’t exactly taking it slow now was it?

Aziraphale looked around the sparse room, politely not commenting on the lack of décor besides the Mona Lisa sketch. Crowley waved him over to the couch as he continued on to get glasses. When he returned, Aziraphale wasn’t sitting on the couch but had gone through the side door, looking at his houseplants.

“I didn’t know you grew plants. They’re in excellent condition.”

“They’d better be, they know what’ll happen otherwise.”

“Are you-“ Aziraphale turned to Crowley, “Are you threatening your houseplants?”

“Have to, keeps them in line.” He looked at Aziraphale’s shocked expression and grinned, “come on, angel, let’s have that drink and stop worrying about the plants.”

The next week they went for a picnic again. Aziraphale had gotten a little carried away looking at Pinterest ideas (Crowley mentally lamented that discovery, knowing it could only lead to trouble) and had made several types of sandwiches as well as an assortment of smoothie concoctions for them to try. The highlight of the meal, however, was the loaf of homemade banana bread that Aziraphale presented with the widest smile. It had a slightly overbaked taste and texture that suggested it might have been forgotten about in the oven for a little bit but Crowley still took the rest of the loaf home to have for breakfast.

And so it went. They traded off buying lunches and packing picnics, occasionally taking each other to new places for the change of scenery. After a summer of this, when the leaves were starting to change color and the weather got a bit more damp, Crowley told Aziraphale to pack for a long weekend. He picked the angel up Friday morning, almost dropping the keys as he nervously twirled them on his fingers. Aziraphale seemed particularly chipper, excited by the prospect of a spontaneous weekend trip. He had two travel mugs of tea prepared, Crowley couldn’t help but notice they had complimentary plaid patterns to the holy water thermos, almost like Aziraphale had ordered a matching set.

As they were driving out of London, taking a longer route to try to stay out of traffic, Aziraphale looked over at Crowley with a suspiciously gleeful expression. “I discovered something interesting the other day.”

“Did you?”

“I happened to be browsing various recorded productions of _Hamlet_ , and one in particular caught my eye.”

“Oh?” Crowley stared at the road, keeping his tone casual while his knuckles turned white from gripping the wheel.

“It wasn’t a perfect adaptation, certain scenes and lines had been cut, but it was clearly made for people who knew and cared about _Hamlet_. And, while it was set in the modern day, it seemed more like they had adapted the modern world to Hamlet rather than adapting the play to the modern world.”

“Fascinating.”

“The most interesting part, however,” Aziraphale continued, “Was that the actor playing Hamlet looked an awful lot like you.”

“Fancy that,” Crowley said quietly.

“There was one other thing that was especially compelling to me. The relationship between Hamlet and Horatio was more…tender, particularly in the final scene when Horatio’s comforting Hamlet.” The angel took an innocent sip of his tea, “I know you don’t prefer the tragedies, but I was curious to know your thoughts on the matter.”

“Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it? People always talk about Fortinbras being a foil for Hamlet but Horatio is too, in a way. He’s level-headed, where Hamlet is more emotionally driven. Maybe, if Hamlet had listened to Horatio more, things would have turned out better. In the end, though, when Horatio’s emotions overcame him, Hamlet had enough sense left to talk him down.”

“Why do you think Hamlet had such a fondness for Horatio?”

“Because he could trust him,” Crowley said softly. “Horatio was the only person who really seemed to believe in Hamlet. He also wasn’t from the world that Hamlet had grown up in. He was totally different from anyone else Hamlet knew, that was enough to make him pay attention; and, once he did, he saw something in Horatio, something good and tender and beautiful. And while he may never have known what Horatio saw in him, he didn’t dare risk losing the best person he’d ever met.”

“Well you have to remember, Crowley, the Hamlet we see in the play is going through the worst series of events in his life. But we can see the passion that’s at the core of his being, he can’t help but feel with his whole self and sometimes that means he takes things to extremes, but it also leads to beautiful creations. He wields his words like a paintbrush and a sword, trying to hold onto any control he has left. You’re absolutely right, they are foils, and as such, they draw out the best in each other.”

“Indeed.”

Once they were out of the city, the rest of the drive was smooth and pleasant. Rather than speeding down the road, weaving in and out of traffic with reckless abandon, Crowley took it slow, giving them time to admire the landscape changing to the South Downs countryside. A few times, Aziraphale almost asked about their destination, but decided to wait and see. He didn’t know what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t the cottage that Crowley pulled up in front of, parking the car just past the gate.

“Did you rent this for us?”

“Sort of,” Crowley held open the gate, gesturing Aziraphale through. “I had some funds lying around from a few investments I made a while back and decided it was time to actually do something with them.”

“You mean you _bought_ this?”

“Signed the paperwork on Monday.”

The cottage had been fully furnished and smelled of a combination of cedar and lemon-scented cleaning product. Aziraphale wandered into the front sitting room, looking around at the oddly quaint abode. Crowley stood in front of the door, watching the angel take in the place.

“There’s a path nearby to the beach, and a small village type area with shops.”

“Crowley, I don’t mean to pry, but _why_?”

He shrugged, feigning nonchalance even as his relaxed pose looked forced and stiff. “London’s a bit rubbish sometimes, good to get away every now and then. And,” he looked down, fiddling with the keys on his key ring, “I figured, you’ve got your store and I’ve got my flat but, it might be nice to have someplace that’s…ours.”

“Ours?”

Crowley walked across the floor to stand in front of Aziraphale, holding out a key in his palm, “I know this seems a bit...fast, and I’m not saying we should just up and move to South Downs, but I want you to know this place is yours too, as much as you want it to be.”

Aziraphale hesitated for a moment before reaching out and taking the key. He looked down at it, turning it over in his fingers, then up at Crowley, offering that small smile the demon had become very familiar with over the millennia. “Why don’t we go look at that beach path then?”

They spent the weekend at the cottage, driving back into London on Monday morning. It didn’t take long before drives to South Downs made their way into the usual routine. Pieces of their lives starting popping up in the cottage, some of Aziraphale’s books, some of Crowley’s art collection. Aziraphale even started cultivating the small garden, planting all sorts of flowers that he would put into vases for the kitchen table.

As November rolled into December, Crowley decided he wanted to spend the winter in South Downs, telling Aziraphale to give him a call any time and he’d come pick him up. It was the week before Christmas when Crowley answered a knock at the door to find Aziraphale standing on the front porch, luggage in hand. They each had their own bedroom but neither really used them except for storing some personal belongings. With no need to sleep, they chose to sit in the living room, watching crap telly or reading or talking, or just sitting in the same room doing whatever. They went for walks down to the beach or the shops, Aziraphale greeting the neighbors while Crowley grimaced at the thought of trying to become a host.

Time passed without either of them marking the days, until one night the clock struck midnight and Aziraphale looked up from his book. “Oh, it’s Christmas.”

“So it is,” Crowley said, looking at the date on his phone. “Happy Christmas, Aziraphale.”

“Happy Christmas. Wait right here.” Aziraphale dashed upstairs, coming back down with a small package wrapped in brown paper and twine. He sat down across from Crowley on the couch, “I know we don’t usually do this sort of thing but, well I couldn’t help myself.”

“Oh, angel,” Crowley took the package and gently undid the twine and paper, revealing the small book underneath.

“I know,” Aziraphale interjected before Crowley could say anything, “That books aren’t usually your thing but I thought this particular collection might be of some interest to you. After all, Walt Whitman was told off for his rather risqué work.”

“You don’t say.” Crowley looked up at Aziraphale with a smile, firelight glinting in his reptilian eyes, “Thank you, Aziraphale, for everything.”

“It’s nothing really.”

“No, I mean that.” Crowley put his hands on Aziraphale’s, needing him to listen before he lost the nerve to say what he needed to say, “You are the best friend I could have ever asked for, and I can’t thank you enough for giving me the privilege of your company.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale felt the blush creeping up in his cheeks, “Are you-are you flirting with me?”

“Have been for the past 6000 years, Angel” Crowley said, the sarcasm unconvincing, “Thanks for finally noticing.”

Aziraphale stared at him, speechless. Crowley worried if he’d gone too fast again, gone too far. Then Aziraphale glanced up, “Oh would you look at that,” He smiled, gently, “mistletoe.”

Sure enough, when Crowley looked up there was mistletoe hanging above their heads that had not been there a moment ago. “Fancy that.” Crowley leaned in and kissed Aziraphale, heart racing as the angel kissed him back, pulling his hands out from under Crowley’s to lace their fingers together.

“I love you,” Aziraphale said when they finally broke apart, pressing foreheads together to catch their breath as they both forgot neither of them needed to breathe. The way he said it was part confession, part realization.

“I love you, too, my angel.”

**Author's Note:**

> There is actually a 2009 production of Hamlet starring David Tennant that I /highly/ recommend


End file.
